to the foot of the Michaelsberg 20,000 foot and 3,000 horse, who laid
down their arms before the Emperor, some with defiant rage, the most
part in stolid dejection, while others flung them away with every sign
of indecent joy.[32] As if the elements themselves conspired to
enhance the brilliance of Napoleon's triumph, the sun, which had been
obscured for days by storm-clouds and torrents of rain, now shone
brightly forth, bathing the scene in the mild radiance of autumn,
lighting up the French forces disposed on the slopes of that natural
amphitheatre, while it cast deep shadows from the long trail of the
vanquished beneath. The French were electrified by the sight: the
fatigues of their forced marches through the dusty heats of September,
and the slush, swamps, and torrents of the last few days were all
forgotten, and they hailed with jubilant shouts the chief whose
sagacity had planned and achieved a triumph hitherto unequalled in the
annals of war. "Our Emperor," said they, "has found out a new way of
making war: he no longer makes it with our arms, but with our
legs."[33]

Meanwhile the other Austrian detachments were being hunted down. Only
a few men escaped from Memmingen into Tyrol: the division, which, if
properly supported, might have cut a way through to Nördlingen three
days earlier, was now overwhelmed by the troops of Murat and Lannes;
out of 13,000 foot-soldiers very few escaped. Most of the horsemen
succeeded in joining the Archduke Ferdinand, on whose track Murat now
flung himself with untiring energy. The _beau sabreur_ swept through
part of Ansbach in pursuit, came up with Ferdinand near Nuremberg, and
defeated his squadrons, their chief, with about 1,700 horse and some
500 mounted artillerymen, finally reaching the shelter of the Bohemian
Mountains. All the rest of Mack's great array had been engulfed.